


Braeburn

by NeoVenus22



Category: Pushing Daisies
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeoVenus22/pseuds/NeoVenus22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Braeburn: This red- and gold-specked apple is juicy sweet with spicy, pearlike undertones.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Braeburn

It wasn't as though he'd never been touched, it was more like he hadn't been touched in so long that he'd pretty much forgotten how it felt and was sort of going into it new. Like getting on a bike for the first time in twenty years and finding out he still remembered how to ride.

All right, maybe Ned's analogies were a little too blunt. But it was hard to not be blunt when Olive's lips were on his thigh.

She'd been baking when he'd come into the kitchen, or cleaning, or maybe building some kind of pastry explosive, it was hard to tell what was meant by the excess flour on every available surface. Like on her cheek, just a streak of white, war paint or battle scars, and when he'd unthinkingly moved to wipe it off with his thumb, she'd redirected his hand and sucked his thumb into her mouth. From there, it was pretty easy (embarrassingly easy) to make the connection to, um, other things in her mouth... and from there, biology took over and it was pretty easy for her to make the connection. And from _there_, it was pretty easy to make the connection that Olive wouldn't deny him. Not that he was asking.

She backed him against the counter without ceremony, and Ned was usually a big fan of ceremony, but there was a lot to be said for going without. She tasted like fruit when she kissed him, her tongue blackberry-flavored in his mouth. It moved just as quickly when she wasn't talking as it did when she was. She worried his shirt out of his pants, leaving dots of white smudged fingerprints on his clothes as she undid his belt.

Olive crouched down, licking a dot of pie filling from the corner of her mouth. Ned was fascinated by the gesture, the tiny flick of the tongue. The positioning of their bodies allowed him to stare down the crevasse of her low-cut top, flour dusting the tops of her breasts like snowcaps, trembling as she wriggled to get comfortable. Then the tiny tongue flicks were redirected elsewhere and it was hard to concentrate. She licked him, again, not unlike she talked: quickly, eagerly, stream-of-consciousness and sometimes getting a little ahead of herself. Her hand was surprisingly steady, sliding slow over the shaft, a buoy bobbing in a shifting tide.

Ned got the eerie tickle that this was the calm before the storm. He didn't know if the storm was the moment he came, or maybe the moment where Olive gave him one of those looks combined, with one of those smiles that made him happy and scared all at once. Maybe the storm hadn't come yet. He was left to wait for it, braced against the countertop hard enough that a line of flour slashed his backside. He was left bewildered and debauched, but oddly okay with both.

Later that night, getting ready for bed, he found a sticky ring on his thigh, a print of her lips, stained in lip gloss and set in flour. It felt ominous and yet sort of comforting. Sweet, with a hint of something spicy, sort of like Olive.


End file.
